We went out once. We didn’t click.

And yet you persist in leaving me five voicemails a day (no, contrary to the pathological excuses you’ve been inventing to justify your looneytunes zeal, my voicemail is functioning quite well; unfortunately, just too fucking well) and cluttering my inbox with all manner of deranged JPEG attachments of coffeehouses we “might be able to meet in.”

In case it isn’t salient by now, I wish you well, but I have no interest in meeting you, much less exchanging a single word with you, ever again.

Most ordinary humans take the hint and move on with their lives. Despite polite and carefully worded language from me thanking you but suggesting that we weren’t exactly the Bob and Betty Wills of our day, you insist in your indefatigable efforts. What part of “Do not call me again” did you not parse? I mean, I think that’s a pretty lucid message, don’t you think?

One would think that at the age of 35, such basic laws of human interaction would be familiar to you by now. And yet you persist.

Since you seem equally intent upon tracking my every online move and responding with some commentary about “what a genius I am” (newsflash: I’m not), I’m hoping that in posting this message, some reasonable element within your being will finally wake up and stop calling me. Failing that, there’s a movie you might want to see that illustrates precisely what has gone wrong (since this has been a common theme in your nutbar voicemail solilioquys). That movie is Play Misty for Me. To be absolutely certain you understand what’s going on here, I’m the Clint Eastwood character. Got it?

Very truly yours,

Edward Champion

…in limn of existential meanderings and peripatetic journeys to urban locales (extra-SF), all concerning the inevitable turkey-stuffing grandcentralstat point, as presented on an X-Y axis shakily scrawled upon a napkin (not unlike certain economic theories), placebo effect and drool req. for gorging and collapse and otherwise mature adults transfixed by cartoons (thank you dvd manufacturers for this nostalgia) that form a narcotic which is simultaneously return to childhood and recontextualization of original viewing. Some things to figure out:

1. Is Bugs Bunny the first animated transvestite and why do I find him mildly attractive?
2. Why are animations so enjoyable to watch shortly before gorging on a large meal?
3. Why does my itinerary resemble some third-rate lounge singer’s? And why am I not opening for some glockenspiel player in a dive bar?
4. They’ve jumped the gun again on Xmas. Again. Why do these atrocious carolers with their trumpets and drums sound as if they are playing nationalist anthems from Communist Yugoslavia? Who knew that “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” played at a middling and painfully slow timbre, conjured up a certain martial ode to Tito (not to be confused with this Tito, who I would not expect to consort with the Soviet Red Army)?

…the like.

Anyway, happy Turkey Day and all to Reluctant readers. Will return sometime next week.

During a particularly harsh bout of insomnia that involved carrying on a colloquy with my skull, I buzzed down my hair to the shortest length that it has ever been. Now it was pretty short to begin with, but this time, I used a #1, dammit. I shaved the pesky fuzz down mercilessly. Not Max Barry length, but pretty damn short. My hair is tantamount to a Chia Pet in the early stages of growth. The early reports are in:

OPINION: “You look more like a dude.”
ANALYSIS: Was I not masculine enough before? Or do some women require a je ne sais quoi Mr. Clean makeover in order to remain convinced that said dude does indeed possess a Y chromosome and maintain an unabated ardor for mammaries?

OPINION: “Did you get a haircut?”
ANALYSIS: No, I didn’t actually. I woke up and my hair grew magically shorter. Glad you noticed.

OPINION: “Wow, you’re going bald.”
ANALYSIS: Thank you. I wasn’t aware of this.

I am very close to doing without hair altogether.

The news is so fundamentally awful and depressing that we’ve now resorted to heavy drinking hanging with friends and disconnecting for a tad so that the profound rage, hopelessness and sorrow we feel doesn’t spread like a cancer into the depths of our soul — the way these incompetents in power want it to. We’ll be back on Tuesday.

[UPDATE: We walked thirty miles in 24 hours. If that doesn’t give you a sense of the crazed lengths we’ve gone to in order to remain calm, nothing will. Of course, wiser folks looking at our neuroses from the outside have been kind enough to put things into perspective. We speak for us (and them) in suggesting that you at least spend about twelve hours away from your television set (pointing out that recusal doesn’t necessarily translate into abdicating one’s responsibilities to stay informed!), doing something modest and without thought that reminds you of the world’s profound wonders. When in doubt, feed the ducks or flirt with someone.]